And Then Came the Sun A Work in Progress
by heartsandheartache
Summary: John, still in mourning after Sherlock's death, tries to cope with the loss and with how he treated Sherlock in their last face to face interaction.  Mostly implied Johnlock at this point, as John is still unaware of his true feelings.
1. Chapter 1

**And Then Came the Sun (A Work in Progress)**

(Please review, I need help! Thank you!)

Sherlock doesn't—didn't—know the ways of the heart. Obviously. So he had no idea that by doing what he thought he must do, that he would nearly kill me. Seeing him jump… The void he left was more painful than any wound I'd ever suffered in battle. I lost my best friend.

I've seen people die, violently even, far too many times. I'd seen them die before me as I tried to save them on the battlefield. But none had ever been so real. None of those deaths, even the deaths on the battlefield—the deaths of those good men and women—had ever touched me. Hell, I'd even killed a few men. But this was Sherlock. A man who was, I am convinced, somehow forced into confessing to being a fraud before he died.

The real frauds were the journalists who jumped on top of the story with hopes of making their careers. For weeks, at least fifty different versions of the same headline and the same story were printed through the dozen or so popular newspapers and tabloids—they wouldn't let go of the story. I would constantly see people hungrily reading those rags, desperate to see the bad in someone so good. Sadists by nature.

Sherlock was a joke to these people; a curiosity to be ridiculed, mocked. None of them saw him for what he was. Moriarty had touched all of these people. He fed them lies that were easy to swallow so they took quite easily; their minds poisoned so willingly by his condemnation.

I continued living on Baker Street, in our flat, and hardly touched any of Sherlock's things. I'd cleaned up a few of his perishable specimens and experiments as they started going bad, but even then some odd odors would occasionally irritate me. I would search for the source when I did smell it, but never found it, and I never could identify what it was.

I left most everything else alone. I didn't know what to do with his mess. I offered some of the research material to Molly and Lestrade, but even with them taking several books each, the living room was still overfull of his mess of literature and research and God knows what else.

Mrs. Hudson was kind enough to let me stay on with just a small increase in rent. I knew she had to be hurting financially by doing this, so I tried my best to chip in more when I could. I began to think that Mycroft might be paying part of Sherlock's rent as well.

Mycroft had been coming by the flat quite frequently to check in. I found it strange, and quite irritating, but I supposed that it was his way of mourning the death of his brother; a death that he may have been able to prevent if he had done his job properly. But I supposed that if he were going to help me pay rent, that I should be pleasant to him. I never really said much to him. I would offer him tea or coffee, make polite and pointless conversation, ask a few questions about how he'd been getting along, and answer a few about myself. Mycroft didn't say much either, and usually just watched me over the edge of his teacup.

I didn't enjoy the visits. I had other things to do, and didn't want to share my home with Mycroft anymore than I had to. I've blamed him since I learned how he handled Moriarty in the beginning. But they didn't last long. Mycroft was gone as soon as he'd asked what he'd come to ask, and as soon as he'd finished his tea. A busy man like him—he was the British government, after all—had very little time for me. He soon stopped coming by so frequently, losing interest in my troubles and having is own to deal with.

Part of me thinks he regrets the relationship he'd had with his brother, and part of me thinks he feels rightfully guilty, so he makes time to come by to just be where Sherlock had been. Where he'd breathed, sat, slept. Where he'd lived.

He'd been here. There was no denying that.

The whole place was still an echo of that man. The yellow face painted on the wall, and the bullet holes ripping the smile to bits. The odds and ends, the who knows what. The beakers and tubes and chemicals. The scuffmarks from where he propped his feet up on the coffee table over and over again.

Nearly everything in the flat was still there.

Minus one tall man in a long black coat.


	2. Chapter 2

I'd been prescribed sleeping pills shortly after the… Shortly after Sherlock died. I only took them when I couldn't stand to stay awake any longer, but I couldn't fall asleep on my own. I never really wanted to sleep; waking from dreams, especially the vivid, drug induced dreams, was too painful. Because he was always there, in my dreams. Like nothing at all had happened. And I would forget for a while, that it had. We were together again, solving cases and chumming around.

But then came the sun.

I'd have to wake up and let go of him. My best friend, and the man I'd lived with for so long. For all his flaws, he was my best friend, and I do believe I was his. Or at least the closest he'd ever had to having a best friend, the poor sod.

Even so, my last, face-to-face encounter with Sherlock haunts me mercilessly. I'd acted just as everyone around him always did. I questioned his humanity. I called him a machine, for fuck's sake. I was not better to him than all the people who doubted him in the end, and all the people who dubbed him a freak throughout his life.

And I was still his last phone call. I was the last person he spoke to, and he made… his confession. He lied. I know he did. Sherlock was no fraud, and he was skilled in the art of deceit. Though that maybe what got him into trouble in the first place.

I believe in Sherlock Holmes. Even if he couldn't believe in himself, I do. I will never see him as a fraud.

When he was on the roof, on the phone call with me, I'd heard him cry. It was strange to hear that man cry—even for me. He was always so composed, calm. The sight of him on the roof didn't frighten me nearly as much as the sound of him crying through the receiver.

Maybe he wasn't as oblivious to the matters of the heart as I'd thought. Maybe he hadn't deleted that from that hard drive in his mind. It was buried, but couldn't be suppressed in the end. It would have taken too much energy to hide.

Sherlock was a master hiding emotions though; I believed, and still do believe, that he did feel much more deeply than he liked to let on. It was proven that, under pressure, the man was capable of emoting quite strongly. But I'd observed him when he hid, at first just wondering why and how he would hide something like that. But it helped me; I enacted his tactics—at first, with varying levels of success. But I soon became quite proficient myself.

I'd go out to lunch, or have tea with Molly about twice a month for the first six months, and she was the hardest one to convince, but eventually, I managed. Lestrade was oblivious, and swamped under the load of cases that Sherlock and I would have taken off his hands in the past. I helped him whenever I could, but in all honesty, if I could solve the case on my own, almost anyone on the force could do the same. Mycroft was handling things in his normal, Iceman fashion; though he was colder than I'd ever seen even him.


	3. Chapter 3

My depression was inwardly much worse than what I allowed to show. I learned quite quickly that people stop asking so many questions if one looks to be coping well. I looked to be progressing through the stages of grief well, slowly, but steadily. It was to be expected—most of the people around Sherlock and I thought of us as a couple.

But in no way was I progressing; I just kept falling, albeit slowly.

I began to see him on the street, walking briskly ahead of me with his long, confident strides. I'd see him in the glass of storefronts, in the windscreens of parked cars, that cocky smirk teasing my eyes away from the path in front of me. And every time I went after him, or looked a second time at the reflective surface, he'd be gone before I'd get there. Always ten steps ahead of me. He always had been.

But I was trying. I knew that Sherlock would have wanted me to try, so I did. I couldn't go near St. Bart's, so I took up another job a few blocks away; working for a private practitioner, and a terrible one at that. I even met up with a few of my old friends every now and then; we went for coffee and would go out to lunch. I did everything I could to get back to some semblance of normal life.

Two things helped me the most, but the effects were short lived: shagging and fighting. I'd come to realise these things after about the seventh month without Sherlock. One calm, nearly silent night—the kind Sherlock despised—I decided to get up and out of the flat. I was tired of sitting there alone at night, and going to bed alone. And I couldn't sit around anymore. I couldn't sit and stare at his things and wallow in it. I had to go out, had to move and get my mind off everything for the night.

Tearing through a pile of my clothing I'd carelessly dropped at the foot of my bed after doing the laundry, I pulled my warmest jumper on over my head to guard against the chilly night air, and headed out to walk the moonlit streets of London.

I'd walked for quite some time when, on a whim, and after seeing a slender, attractive blonde enter the darkened pub, I decided I could use a drink or two. I set myself that limit early, knowing just how easy it is to fall into the clutches of alcohol. I'd seen it—on a far too personal level—ruin multiple lives.

The pub was having a slow night, and for that I was grateful. Only six other patrons were there, and three of them looked to be a group of office workers celebrating the coming of the weekend.

The blonde that had caught my eye was sitting alone at a corner table, nursing a pinkish cocktail of some sort. She was dressed in a smart, well-fitted business suit, the navy skirt brushing the skin just over her knees as she sipped the beverage. She looked over her thin rimmed glasses at me as I sat myself a table away from her. She smiled, but then turned to the television broadcasting the weather for the next day. As I ordered my drink, she tucked a strand of that long blonde hair behind her ear, and looked at me again.

I took the initiative, standing, and walking over to her. "John Watson," I said, extending my hand as I stood before her.

She turned, tilting her head a little and smiling warmly. She accepted the handshake. "It's very nice to meet you, John Watson." Her hand is warm, soft, small. "Cassidy Walker." She gestured for me to sit across from her, and I did.

The woman had a hint of a New York accent. "An American?"

She nodded, picking up the drink and sipping it once more, eyeing me the whole time with her glasses sitting low on her nose. "Yes. Well, I just moved here a few months ago. I was transferred from an office in New York."

"And how are you liking the city?"

Things progressed like that for a while—just small talk and pleasantries. But from the way her eyes watched me—the way she would bite her lip and flick her eyes across my chest and face—I knew her mind was on more than just the topic at hand. And so was I. Something about this encounter gave me a rush, and I wanted to see just how far we could go.

I woke up in my shorts—next to her, in tangled sheets—on her bed the next morning, red-faced and unable to recall her name. I don't think it had ever really registered. I just didn't care. She was someone to have fun with for a night. A distraction. I felt callous, and a bit like a Holmes, but it was true.

As I dressed silently and slipped out the door in the same clothes I'd worn the night before, I felt ashamed. The high from the night before was gone, and I felt like I was missing something again. The shame didn't come from the act of sex with a stranger, nor was it the sneaking out of her flat before she woke. It was something deeper, but I couldn't put my finger on it. I felt like I was betraying a part of myself the morning after every hook up, but the thrill of the hunt and the primal act had me hooked.

The American woman had been my first random shag since my university years, but she was not the last.


	4. Chapter 4

The fights started a few weeks later. Along with my trying to find women to shag every few nights, I picked up that habit. The two were not unrelated at times—sometimes I'd find myself chatting up the wrong girl. But that's not how it had gone the first time.

I'd met a gorgeous, busty redhead in a popular tavern I'd been in a few times, and we hit it off exceedingly well. We'd exchanged contact information, bought each other a few drinks, and we'd even danced together to a few songs. She was smart, and had a wonderful sense of humor to match her stunning figure and deep green eyes. I was deeply in lust by the end of the night.

The place was slowly emptying out, and we were on the last drinks of the night when it happened.

"Hey…" Someone had grabbed my shoulder and I instinctively tensed up, soldier's nerves firing. He sounded like he'd been drinking for quite some time, and reeked of gin. "Hey I know you. Yeah."

The woman I was chatting up cast her eyes on the drunk and pursed her lips, angry with the intruder for interrupting our mutual seduction.

"Sorry. No. Don't recognize you." I knew what this would be about. And I was honestly surprised it hadn't come up before.

He was becoming agitated by my disinterest in what he had to say and his voice grew louder and more pressing. "Hey, no. You're that guy who used to go around with that detective bloke. The one who killed himself." His words came out in an uneven pattern, slurred, and the other people in the room hushed themselves at his outburst. They stared for a short while, but soon went back to their drinks and conversations.

The man was a good head taller than me, and had at least fifty pounds of mostly muscle on me. Even with my past military experience, normally I would have felt somewhat threatened by such a looming presence. Especially since I had not used said training consistently for a long time. But he was intoxicated to say the least, leaning on the bar to keep himself steady. His eyes were glassy and unfocused.

"What's that got to do with anything? I'm trying to have a nice evening here with this beautiful lady; with Emily." Thankful to remember this woman's name, I turned back to her, trying to ignore the drunk.

She smiled a little at me, but was obviously unnerved and unhappy with the situation. She'd grabbed her purse and overcoat, set them on her lap, and seemed to be thinking of leaving. "Look, John… I gave you my number. How about you call me some other time? Ok?" She perceptive enough to know that something was coming.

I sighed heavily. "Yeah. Sure. Sure."

She left in a hurry after she paid, pulling her overcoat over her pale bared shoulders, her heels clicking sharply on the wood floor.

He took Emily's seat as soon as she'd gotten up. "Hey. So you saw the guy jump, yeah?"

My fists and jaw clenched, and a few of my knuckles popped. He was drunk—drunk and tactless. I tried to calm myself but he kept talking, wearing me down with his tabloid babble. On and on, reciting countless articles about Sherlock, about how he'd been a fraud. When he decided to tell me his opinion, I got up to leave. It was one thing to hear him speak as if he were reading directly from the papers, and another thing to hear him personally degrade Sherlock.

He followed me to the bartender, and I looked him straight in the eye as I paid for my drinks. "Sherlock Holmes was a good man; better than me, and certainly better than you will ever be."

Something about that enraged his gin-soaked mind, and he staggered after me, calling out. I led him away from the pub, and down several narrow alleys until I found a quiet, darkened spot with an easy escape route if things got ugly. He followed, as I'd expected, and seemed angrier than before.

I let him lunge at me so I could plead self-defense if I were questioned, but soon discovered that he was more prepared for a fight than I'd given him credit for. He'd sobered up fairly quickly, losing none of the rage he'd acquired.

But he was not trained. His punches were sloppy, but quite a few connected. Each time he hit, though, he left himself open or off guard, letting me destroy what little defense he had. I threw punch after calculated punch at his face and gut before he was able to push me off him and step back. We circled each other like animals.

I watched him carefully, holding up his fists while I walked with mine at my sides. He was younger than me, but not by much, and he was the type to lift weights. I could tell both by his physique and by the strength with which he threw his punches. My lip was split easily in the first part of the brawl, and my nose was dripping blood from the hit that had come after that.

His head turned slightly in surprise at the sound of two alley cats fighting, and I took full advantage. Stifling a scream, I went for his center of gravity, meaning to take him down and finish the job.

We were on the ground then, rolling around, beating each other. I finally regained the offense, sitting with one knee on his chest and another on the inside of his elbow. The skin on my knuckles broke as I hit him; his blood mingled with mine on his face, my fist, and on our clothes. He grabbed for my face with his free hand and I shot back to my feet. He got to his hands and knees, struggling to get up, and I kicked at his torso a few times.

I swung my leg back once more, but caught myself. I took a good look at the man. "Fuck." I'd been careful not to seriously injure him, but if I had continued, I would have.

He got back on all fours, and then to his feet, shakily recoiling. "No more!" He coughed and winced at the pain it caused his bruised ribs. "Shit, ow!" He held up his hands, palms facing me, as he backed away.

I wanted to go after him, badly. The adrenaline high was marvelous. I let him go, but found another fight the next night. And two nights after that as well. The first few weeks, after that first fight, I managed to find someone to brawl with almost every other night.


	5. Chapter 5

But I couldn't always patch myself up completely or properly after the increasingly more serious fights I'd get into, so I chose to go to Molly when I needed help. The first few times, she didn't question what I had done, or why I had come to her and not gone to the emergency room. But when I started coming to her more frequently, she did. I never answered her questioning. But I showed up with bloody knuckles, black eyes, busted lips, split cheeks, and the occasional shallow knife wound often enough for her to finally admit that she knew what I was getting myself into. She was entirely unhappy.

"John. I've been holding this in for a long time, because I thought it wasn't my place to say anything," she said one night as she disinfected my raw knuckles. "But it is. You've been coming to me, expecting me to fix this for weeks now. I can't do this anymore. I can't see you put yourself through this."

I watched her continue her work as she neatly bandaged my hands once more. I said nothing.

She looked me in the eye, trying to smile and failing as her eyes misted. "I know why you're fighting; it's an outlet—a release—isn't it? And I know you miss him. Terribly. I-I miss him too you know?" She looked down and away from me. "But I get on with life. He'd want that for you too, you know?" She wiped a few tears away, looked at me again, and put her hands on top of mine. "He wouldn't want this for you, you know?"

My head fell and my shoulders relaxed. "I know."

"Please don't make me do this again, John. Find something else to dull the pain. Nothing destructive, to you or anyone else."

I thanked her and stood to leave, but she touched my shoulder to turn me around. "I'm always here to talk. Or you could phone me, of course. You aren't alone. You know that, right?"

Feeling I should try to smile, I did. But Molly was wrong. I was alone. Just as I had been before I'd met Sherlock.

Someone—and I assumed it had been Molly—told Lestrade to hang around with me at night to stop me from getting into so much trouble, and for a while it really did help me. He was a great guy, and he was a lot of fun to be with most of the time. But when he got busy again, I was left to my new vices.

But despite everything—every effort, good and bad—I couldn't do without him anymore. I'd been trying to cope for months now, and things were only getting worse. Getting more difficult to deal with. Even my temporary highs weren't enough for a quick fix anymore.

And still those sleeping pills sat on the table, the opaque bottle collecting dust.

I poured myself a glass of water, and sat myself in front of that innocent little bottle. I folded my bandaged hands in front of my mouth and stared. I tried to clear my mind of everything but the pill bottle in front of me, and the decision to be made.

It felt like hours. I memorized every grove in cap, every word on the label as my glass of water beside me began to form condensation. I felt as though I could recite the phone number and address on the bottle backwards. I'd even found somewhat of a pattern in the barcode. But as much as I studied that bottle, my decision couldn't be made without opening it, and taking one of the pills out of the plastic container it had sat in since the prescription had been filled.

The glass had quite a large ring around its base by the time I twisted the cap loose and tapped one of the pills into my hand, and stared at it.

It was fairly small, and was a strong blue colour. I flipped it over in my palm and studied the identification number stamped into the blue tablet. I tapped another into my open hand. Another. Another. I emptied the bottle that way, but there weren't very many to begin with. I must have been taking them far more frequently than I let myself think. I counted the circular tablets in my hand. Six were left.

I'd thought of the many ways I could do this. My first thought, was rather obvious: I originally thought of jumping from the roof of St. Bart's, like Sherlock had. But that idea had only lasted for the first few weeks, and I couldn't bring myself anywhere near the building during that time. My next idea was the obvious out; a gun. But I didn't want Mrs. Hudson to have to see the mess that would leave. I couldn't do that to her.

Six, neat little sleeping pills lay in my hand. It was a neat escape, and should be peaceful.

But would it be enough? Surely with my stature and weight these six sleeping pills, 5mg each, would be enough.

I didn't want to wake from the dream they surely would supply. I wanted to drift away. The decision was made.

Parting my lips, I tossed the six pills onto my tongue, where they sat heavily while I gave my plan one last thought. It was what I wanted. I was sure.

Most men would crumble after the war, after being shot. I had made it this far, but could go no further. I'd lost my best mate, the best person I'd ever known, someone I'd come to… trust. And I couldn't help him anymore; I'd failed him by letting Moriarty take the minds of the people of London, and of the world.

I brought the water glass to my lips and sipped enough water to wash my choice down. I swallowed the already partially dissolved pills in one go, but I finished the glass to be sure they were down, and to lessen the bitterness they'd left on my tongue.

I mopped up the ring the glass had made, and went to the kitchen. I washed the few dishes that had been in the sink for a few days. I dried them too, and put them in their proper place. I didn't want Mrs. Hudson to have to do it later. She would have enough to do.

Moving to tidy up the front room, I began to notice pinpricks in my fingers and toes. They grew somewhat cold as I finished putting my things away, and I knew I should get myself to bed. But I didn't want to go to my room, and Sherlock's room seemed far more inviting and appropriate anyway. Besides, my feet were beginning to feel too heavy to make it up the stairs.


	6. Chapter 6

His door creaked from disuse as I opened it, and the strange odor I'd smelled for quite some time was strong when mixed with the stagnant air. I hadn't been in his room for weeks, maybe months. But the smell didn't bother me anymore; I'd lived with it for quite some time.

I stood in the doorway for a while to take in Sherlock's bedroom—the last place I'd see. He'd kept most of his work out of his bedroom, and rarely seemed to sleep in it—or at all—

anyway, so it was very clean. His bed was still neatly made, and the sheets were the same silky, navy blue ones I'd had laundered for him before. His bedspread was the same colour, but had a slightly different texture.

I fished for my mobile in my pocket as I lay myself on his bed and made myself comfortable enough, moving slowly and deliberately. I scrolled through my contacts, going almost halfway through the alphabet before I found the one person I wanted to notify; the one person who wouldn't be able to stop this. I typed out the message, already feeling the tendrils of sleep tugging at me.

"I tried. Honest, I did, Sherlock. But I can only take so much. I'm nothing. You made me matter. And I couldn't save you. You said that phone call had been your note, and since I can't call you, this will have to do as mine. See you soon. –JW" It took me a while to correct some typos my drowsy fingers had made, but then I hit the send button and set the phone on the bed by his pillow.

I closed my eyes, finally willing to embrace sleep. I didn't realise how much I'd missed it until then. I didn't fear having to wake up. Sleep pulled harder at me, making my limbs feel heavy and numb, making itself at home on my chest. My breathing slowed as I was about to fall into sleep's full embrace.

My phone rang shrilly beside me, startling me enough to rouse myself to check who was calling—who was interrupting. It rang three more times before I could focus my eyes on the caller ID window to see a blocked number, and then stopped. I set the phone back down beside me.

Again it rang, and I groaned a little. Reaching for it this time seemed like such an effort. I was sluggish. It rang twice before I could get it to my ear. I accepted the call this time, without looking at the ID. I said nothing, just breathed slowly against the mouthpiece.

"John?"

My heart skipped. That voice. I knew that voice. Sherlock was calling me to sleep, and someone had called me at the most inopportune time. My eyes slid shut slowly.

"Damn it, John. Answer me."

"Sherlock, I'm coming to see you," I murmured, my lips slowly curling into a smile. My arm was heavy, and it was hard to keep the phone by my ear. I wanted sleep, and it wanted me. I dropped the phone on the pillow by my face and let my arm fall back to my side.

The voice I'd missed grew hard, harsh, but seemed far away. "Where are you? Keep talking. Do that for me."

I tried to answer him, to please him, but my mouth was getting dry, and my tongue was starting to become a little unresponsive. "I'm on my way."

He paused. "From where? And how are you getting where you're going?"

I took in a few breaths before answering. They were slow and a little shaky. "Your bed," I slurred, lips numbing. "Took… I took sleeping pills… To come see you." My voice was slow, heavy, and unrecognizable; I felt like I was speaking underwater. My chest felt strange, with dull pains creeping in an out.

"John. How many?"

"Enough." I couldn't remember the number. My mind was a fog, and my thoughts were thick and slow—like molasses. _He wanted to make sure I'd get to him_, I thought, sighing. _So impatient. So Sherlock. _ But I knew I'd taken enough, even if I couldn't remember how many I'd had.

He asked again, urgently, "How many did you take, John?"

I turned my head slowly and rested my cheek on his pillow, and unbelievably, I smelled a faint trace of his shampoo on it. I smiled again. "I can smell you. I'm close. It's… good."

Sherlock was running. I could hear his footsteps falling quickly on the ground, and I could hear his breathing quicken. He was running to meet me. We'd go together into whatever the afterlife would be. I smiled and slipped.

Sherlock was soon with me, calling to me. I recognise his voice, but could not make out what he was saying. His voice was warped in this after-place, but it was still a comfort. He was guiding me. Soon I could see him, his face, that head of curls. I felt his touch, reassuring me that I was gone from the place where he no longer existed. His breath was at my ear, still trying to tell me something, to make some point.

But then I could no longer feel him or hear him. Or anything.


	7. Chapter 7

After some time, I became aware of a slight pain, and I could hear some penetrating tone beeping constantly. The pain grew quickly, and brought me awake with a grimace. I thought I heard a gasp, and the sound of a light-footed retreat, but kept my eyes closed.

I'd failed.

Damn it all.

And now, judging by the beeping, I was in the hospital. As a patient. And I was probably going to have to endure a psych evaluation for what I'd done to land me there.

Damn it all again.

I focused on my breathing, and trying to steady the faintly erratic pulsing tone of the heart monitor. I had to, somehow, be calm. I had to make it look like an accident if I wanted to get out of there.

God. How was I supposed to do that? They all knew damn well, I'm sure, that this had been on purpose. There was no way a sodding doctor could have made such a poor miscalculation on accident. My agitation affected the heart monitor again and I struggled to relax again.

The pain was subsiding, I realised, feeling the slight burn of morphine or some similar drug entered my system via the IV on the back of my left hand. The dose wasn't nearly enough to knock me out, but it sedated me. And it felt good.

Despite myself, I let a faint smile twitch at my lips. I figured I might as well enjoy it, I wasn't recovered enough to try to fight it off. I was comfortable, floating. It dulled the turmoil in my mind a bit, letting me rest.

I heard the door to my hospital suite open wider as someone entered, then close gently behind the visitor. The firm footsteps made me think whoever had entered was male, and I half expected to hear the ruffling of papers as a doctor paged through my chart. The man came closer, slowing a bit.

Hesitation.

Odd. But not intriguing enough for me to open my eyes.

He came closer, pausing by my bed. I could feel him grip the bedside rail on my right side, leaning quite heavily on it. And I could feel him staring. Intently. Fiercely. As if I were some lab rat.

Irritated with his unrelenting focus, I finally opened my eyes, about ready to tell the intruder to piss off. As he came into focus, I opened my mouth, but what I saw stole my breath and my ability to speak.

Those cheekbones set high on his face caught my eye first, then those eyes; those beautifully unique eyes staring back at my own. An unfamiliar reddish tint to those all too familiar curls that draped across his forehead. His enviable height and his graceful slenderness that only emphasised it.

My jaw was slack, eyes wide. Confusion ran rampant in my mind. _Sherlock?_ _What? No, he just looks like him,_ I thought. _It can't be him. But—oh, God—it was him. It was Sherlock._

The heart monitor beeped more quickly as I shut my mouth, and stretched my hand out to touch his wrist—it was just within my reach—as he leaned against the rail on my hospital bed. As my fingertips grazed the skin exposed by his rolled up shirtsleeves, the contact made him grip the bed's rail more firmly.

I didn't pull away, and didn't even attempt to speak. I just let my hand rest softly on the slight curve of that pale wrist, just below the dark, bunched fabric. Looking away from where out skin met, I brought my eyes back to his face. I looked into the unearthly pale eyes, the very eyes that had haunted me—the very eyes that had been dead and open and blank, staring lifelessly at the sky after the fall. But that image was gone, deleted. Now I saw them as they really were; very much alive, roving over my face and body. Sherlock was studying me, looking for tells while trying to hide his intensity.

My hand moved slowly from the crook of his wrist up his forearm to his sleeve, and I my eyes never strayed from his face, studying him just as much as he was studying me. I gripped the fabric and tugged gently at it, hoping to bring him nearer. He didn't respond at first, caught up in his observations, no doubt wondering what I was doing and what I was thinking. Finally feeling the pull, he glided closer. He stood stiffly by my shoulder, his shirt still in my grasp.

He eyed me cautiously then, looking somewhat surprised. But I wasn't through. I tried to pull him nearer still, urging him to bend over the bed. With his face so close, I wanted to touch it, knowing it would cement his realness in my carefully hopeful mind.

My free hand lifted from the bed sluggishly and hovered by his cheek. I hesitated, afraid that he would reject this more intimate touch.

My eyes were still locked on his when he took me by surprise, using his free hand to press mine to his face and speaking. "I'm here, John. I'm real."

"Sh-Sherlock."


	8. Chapter 8

(I had nearly finished this chapter about a week and a half ago, but I lost all of it due to a network error. Moral of the story: don't write in class using Google Docs-I haven't learned it quite yet though, apparently. Anyway, thank you for sticking with me and please review if you've any ideas, suggestions, or criticisms.)

He explained everything rather quickly, making my head spin. But I got most of it. He'd had to jump to save Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and myself. He'd had to stay away, without notifying anyone, to keep off Moriarty's radar and to keep us safe. He'd spent the last two years killing off the web, traveling all over the world.

I felt stupid, more so than I ever had. Sherlock had sacrificed all of that for us, and I'd very nearly thrown it all away. He caught the expression on my face, though I'd tried to hide it. "What is it?"

I grimaced. Of course he'd see through me, I thought. That's what he does, he's Sherlock. "You've done all this and I couldn't even bring myself to live." I forced a bitter laugh.

He frowned and pulled a chair over to my bedside and sat down. "John... When I found you, and when Lestrade showed up, we noticed something about the flat."

I racked my brain, trying to think of what they would have noticed. Aside from me, lying helpless in Sherlock's room, drugged out of my mind. "What."

He jumped to his feet, pacing. "There was a strange odor, and we believe it had been present for quite some time. It was hard to place. Very faint in most of the flat, but seemed centralized in my room and the kitchen." He went on about it, describing what he thought was important about it.

Had he somehow forgotten all his experiments? How they would stink up the place for days-weeks even? I sighed. "There was always a strange smell in the flat, Sherlock. What are you getting at?"

He shook his head, staring at me with an unreadable expression. "You hadn't noticed something new? Some unfamiliar odor after my fall?"

"Oh..." I remembered it faintly then; a strange, chemical smell that hadn't belonged to any of the leftover experiments, something that soon seemed to disappear as I grew used to it. I'd almost forgotten about it until I'd entered Sherlock's room. I nodded dumbly. "What was it?" I asked.

He seemed happy that I'd remembered something. "It was some sort of aerosol depressant. Lestrade's having it analyzed..." He trailed off and I could tell he wanted to be the one to figure it out. But he was here instead.

I sighed. "Oh..." Was that what had caused me to fall so far, so hard? I frowned, thinking on that.

Sherlock answered my unspoken question. "That's probably what led to this," he said, voice a little quieter than usual as he gestured to me and the hospital room. His eyes softened for a moment and moved toward the monitors and machines I was hooked up to.

I swallowed hard, cursing to myself. I'd stayed in the flat more and more, leading up to my suicide attempt. If I hadn't wallowed there, if I'd taken Molly or Lestrade or even Mycroft up on their repeated offers for company more often, maybe this could have been prevented. I clenched a fist around my blanket.

He approached me again and laid a hand on mine, curling his long fingers around the back of my fist. "John. Relax."

His skin warmed mine, distracting me. I let out a long breath, sinking into the bed as I stared at our hands. It felt... nice. Unexpectedly so. A small smile pulled at my lips, the heat from his hand spreading.

He gave a light squeeze and removed his hand. "Good," he praised, as I'd relaxed like he'd asked. He sat down next to me again, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin on folded hands as he appeared to observe me.

I'd stopped smiling after he broke contact, hoping he hadn't noticed or would write it off as a response to the drugs or the pain. I played with a frayed bit of blanket, avoiding his eyes.

"John?"

"Mm?"

He was quiet, apparently waiting for me to look back at him. I turned slowly to face him, looking at him from under my lashes.

"I missed you."

I swallowed hard, the heart monitor betraying my increasing heart rate. "I-I missed you too."

He smirked a bit, turning to look at the monitor's readout. He raised a brow as he looked back at me, observing, reading every little tell. I wet my lips under his scrutiny, heart beating ever faster under his unflinching gaze.

"Your pupils, John," he said.

"W-what?"

"Your pupils. They're dilated. Your pulse is elevated. You reached out to touch me the moment you saw me..."

My face reddened as I realised what it all meant, as I realised how I felt. Once again I felt stupid. How had I not put it together before? It wasn't just me reaching out to see if he was real, and it wasn't just a critical eye making me sweat, making my heart fly.

"Sherlock..."


End file.
